


Frescoes and Fraternizing

by charlottemadison, slateblueflowers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), M/M, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Pope Julius II, Pope Julius II was a Dick, Renaissance Art, Renaissance Era, Renaissance Hijinks, Sistine Chapel - Freeform, Sistine Chapel Ceiling, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Arrangement, Vatican, Vatican Shenanigans, rated H for Heresy, rated M for for nudity & frank discussion of genitals, the authors enjoy the sordid history of Renaissance art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/pseuds/slateblueflowers
Summary: The one where Aziraphale and Crowley have OPINIONS for Michelangelo about the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 133
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	Frescoes and Fraternizing

**Rome, 1508**

Damn it all, these stockings were itchy. He adjusted his weight, surreptitiously rubbing the heel of one foot against the calf of the other to alleviate the discomfort that had plagued him all night. Had he managed to catch some hair in them again? He ducked his head, checking that he hadn’t scuffed the white fabric.

“Signor Buonarroti!” 

His head jerked up and he searched the crowd for the voice calling his name. People swirled all around, soft Italian velvet shimmering in the failing light of dusk, more than one doublet soiled with wine from the night’s festivities. He pivoted on his heel, craning his neck and cursing the ubiquitous clacking of heels on stone, the babble of a crowded event, and the hateful twanging of lutes which passed for music. 

“Signore!” He felt someone tap his shoulder. “Signore. Michelangelo! How wonderful to see you again! I trust you’re enjoying yourself this evening?” 

Michelangelo turned to greet Signor Regio, a former patron who had once commissioned a particularly poignant sculpture of Athenian wrestlers. He reluctantly brought Regio close in an embrace. The man had been beastly to work for, intolerable to his wife and his servants, and still smelled strongly of onions. He supposed he could tolerate a few minutes of idle chat for the sake of business. Who knew when the fellow would need another suspiciously erotic statue for his garden? 

Oh, the life of an artist. “Of course, old friend, how could I not?”

Regio smiled unnervingly broadly and clapped Michelangelo on the shoulder too hard for his liking. “Ah, how could I have asked? Surely, if ever the Pope wished to woo me for my artistic talents, you would find me enjoying my party as you are yours, with a drink in hand and women by my side!” He glanced around and leaned in as if he were sharing a secret. “Although, I see the wine, but where are your companions? Or does His Holiness withhold such pleasures until after you’ve agreed to his demands?” He winked.

“My friend, you know as well as I that I am hardly one to muddle my soul with that particular vice.” The men shared a laugh, Michelangelo pulling away quickly to escape the man’s breath. They clinked their goblets together. “But no, I have yet to respond to the Pope’s request. He wants me to adorn the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, can you believe?” He sighed. “When I heard he was soliciting my services, I thought I would be providing his Holiness with more sculpture.” 

Then, for the first time, he noticed the figure beside Signor Regio, a polite-looking man standing with his hands clasped neatly over his middle and wearing a pleasant, intrigued expression.

“And who is your friend?” Michelangelo asked, quickly losing interest in entertaining Regio. His eyes roved over the stranger’s blue and silver doublet, up to the most striking head of pale blond hair he’d ever seen. He looked positively angelic. “I’m afraid I’ve been terribly rude. My name is Michelangelo Buonarroti,” he added, leaning forward to offer his hand. 

Michelangelo knew himself very well. He was aware of his professional reputation, and acutely aware that he was the guest of honor at tonight’s party. He knew his cheekbones were higher than most, and he knew his beard looked magnificent under a soft twilight sky. And he hadn’t earned a reputation for abstaining from women accidentally.

The man’s hand was soft in his. Michelangelo brought it to his lips, tilting his head and looking up at him through his eyelashes. He blinked slowly, toeing the line between coquettish and suggestive, and letting the corner of his mouth quirk up. Perhaps this party could result in something other than half-hearted schmoozing and itchy stockings.

Without removing his hand from Michelangelo’s, the man smiled brightly and leaned in to be heard over the din. “Aziraphale. It’s a pleasure to meet you, signore,” he said. Signor Aziraphale raised his goblet of wine to his lips. Michelangelo stared, transfixed, watching his lashes flutter unselfconsciously as he sipped. “My, this wine _is_ enchanting, isn’t it?”

Michelangelo swallowed thickly, still holding Aziraphale’s palm in his own. “Enchanting, certainly,” he said quietly, reluctantly relinquishing the warm hand. “Have you traveled far to join us tonight?”

“Not terribly far, I assure you, but far enough to make the locale delightfully novel.”

“What brings you to Rome? Besides the unbeatable views,” he smiled broadly, cocking his head to the side, trying not to posture too obviously. 

Signor Aziraphale chuckled, casting his eyes about the darkening square, lit by candelabras hanging in the colonnades. “It is indeed breathtaking,” he nodded, “but I admit I’m here for the company more than the sights. When I heard His Holiness was hosting a party in St. Peter’s Square, well. How could I miss that?”

“Very easily, I should hope,” Michelangelo grimaced. “You’ve not met him, have you?”

“I’m afraid I have.”

“And you’re still delighted to be here?”

“It seems my love affair with good food and drink outweighs any other...impediments.”

Ah, not just a pretty face, then. Signor Aziraphale wore an innocent look, all large eyes and bemused eyebrows, but Michelangelo caught the pointed disapproval at the edge of his tone. He found himself drawn in by his companion’s gentle white curls, now a warm halo in the candlelight, so much so that he nearly missed the next thing out of his mouth. 

“I believe our mutual acquaintance mentioned something about His Holiness...wooing you?”

“It’s quite a spectacle just to get one man to paint a ceiling, don’t you think? Although if it’s allowed you and I to meet, I shouldn’t complain.” Michelangelo coughed to cover up his immediate mortification at the horribly obvious line he had just let out of his mouth. He was rewarded with a blush from Signor Aziraphale though, who took another sip of wine.

“To be clear, His Holiness has asked me to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Normally, I would be eager to lend my talents to a place of worship. And to be a part of the rebuilding of the seat of Christianity and reverence for Our Lord! The honor is...unparalleled.” Michelangelo shifted his weight, trying surreptitiously to ease the itch of those infernal stockings, and scanned the crowd around them. He lowered his voice, feeling certain somehow that he could trust this recently made acquaintance not to share what he was about to say. “But the man himself, divine as he may be...I cannot abide him, Signor Aziraphale. He orders troops into battle, desecrates tombs, thinks himself an emperor -- revels in violence and bloodshed -- and then calls upon me to beautify his buildings. As if a painting could rectify the havoc he’s wrought!” He scoffed. “As if my art could purify his soul.”

Michelangelo met Signor Aziraphale’s eyes again and wondered if he had shared too much. Truthfully, he hadn’t accepted the Pope’s offer, lucrative though it was, because he was still irritated over the pontiff’s most recent request. Eight months agonizing over marble choices in Carrara -- eight months! -- to sculpt a tomb for His Holiness, only to be removed from the project before he could begin work in earnest. The memory of it stung, but he still should have known better than to question the Holy Father’s decisions to his face. 

“Surely the offer is worth consideration, though?” asked Signor Aziraphale. 

Michelangelo took a deep breath. He genuinely hadn’t decided. At the moment he was half inclined to forget Julius II, forget Rome, and run off with Signor Aziraphale to a life of anonymity in the countryside. No more commissions, no more Regios, no more threats from a murderous tyrant claiming to represent God on Earth.

He emptied his goblet in one long draught and wondered how to explain all this to the angelic stranger before him.

+++

“Pour us another, signorina!” cried Crowley.

The wine at the papal party was far better than the wine at the taverna. The elite gathering on the square was ripe with wafts of lust, greed, envy, and pride. And all of these -- accompanied by lute music that pleased none and vexed all -- had the demon Crowley in a gleeful mood. He entertained himself by making the stockings of all the Pope’s particular favorites itch terribly, so that he could enjoy watching them squirm while he drained his drink.

Assignments at the Vatican were a mixed bag. The wealthy heads of every noble family congregated here, tripping over their own hypocrisy in desperation to curry favor with the Church. And the clergy were even worse; corruption and avarice rolled in waves through these halls of power.

The trouble was, a great many of such halls were technically sanctified, so Crowley couldn’t always be everywhere he was required. And since even hypocritical holiness was still technically holy, his skin always buzzed with a low-grade irritation. Within a few weeks he'd have a full-blown rash. Working here entailed a great deal more effort and discomfort than Crowley would usually tolerate.

But as long as most Church functions looked similar to the start of a good old-fashioned Roman orgy -- such as, for example, this ostentatious party -- he'd find ways to make trouble. He’d already sprinkled food poisoning across the groaning buffet table and was working up to some strategically seeded gossip, when he caught a glimpse of white-blond curls across the way and pulled up short.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said aloud, blinking in disbelief behind his dark glasses.

He was much too far away for the angel to have heard him, but he bit his tongue to silence himself anyway. What on earth was Aziraphale doing here? Besides drinking wine and helping himself to the antipasti, apparently? Why had they been assigned to the same location at the same time?

And more to the point, _why was he talking with Crowley's mark?_

Crowley hastily checked over himself, adjusting his hair and jewelry. All of his plans were suddenly in disarray. After a moment’s consideration, he swiped two fresh goblets of wine -- one for himself, one for his angel -- and headed directly toward his hereditary adversary. Arrangement or no, it wouldn’t do to be working at cross purposes. He sauntered up behind the angel unnoticed.

“Hel- _lo,_ Aziraphale,” Crowley called in a merry singsong voice.

He was gratified to see Aziraphale look to his left, startled, and then whirl comically till they faced one another. He was even more gratified by the angel’s brilliant, unguarded smile, although it dimmed abruptly when Aziraphale remembered himself.

Some things never changed.

An unfamiliar noble stood to one side of Aziraphale, sweaty and red-faced and smelling distinctly of onions. Crowley wrinkled his nose and the stranger abruptly realized he had somewhere else to be.

“Oh! It’s _so_ good to see you again! Signor...er, remind me?” The angel hesitated, knowing better than to name him in company, just in case he’d already assumed a pseudonym.

He hadn’t, but it was more fun this way. “Rossi, Signor Rossi,” he said, offering up one of the goblets of wine. Aziraphale was already nursing one, but he traded it in without hesitation.

“Ah, of course. Delighted,” said the angel. They raised their drinks in mutual salutation.

“Won't you introduce me to your friend?” Crowley asked with a wide grin.

Aziraphale smiled back, but the strain around his eyes indicated he had just remembered that they weren't alone. “Oh! Of course, what sort of...person...wouldn't? Introduce you? Right.” He stalled by popping a piece of prosciutto-wrapped melon into his mouth. Crowley hastily miracled away the dusting of salmonella for which he was responsible.

When he could put the matter off no longer, Aziraphale gestured between the two of them resignedly. “Signor Buonarroti, this is...this is Signor Rossi. A man of...business, I suppose --”

“The finest imported silks, as it happens,” Crowley clarified.

“And how do you two know one another?” asked Michelangelo Buonarroti, famed sculptor of the statue of David -- and the singularly talented reason Hell had sent Crowley to this particular party.

“We don’t,” Aziraphale said hastily.

“We’ve met in passing on our travels,” Crowley explained, still grinning.

“Yes. Business, you know.”

“Business. That’s right.” Crowley did _so_ enjoy making his angel squirm.

“I hadn’t expected to see you again -- s-so soon -- here in Rome,” Aziraphale managed awkwardly. There was an edge to the angel’s voice.

“What tremendous good fortune you have,” Crowley congratulated him. He turned to Michelangelo and simultaneously turned up the charm. “You wouldn’t be connected to the family Buonarroti, that of the famous sculptor Michelangelo?”

The man spread his hands helplessly. “I am he, the more is my misfortune.”

That was Crowley's cue.

“Now, why would you say that, signore?” He leaned in sympathetically, hardly daring to believe his luck. Every temptation began with knowing what the mark wanted, and here the man was, about to offer it up on a platter. Some humans hid their motivations in the darkest corners of their mind, but others betrayed it so easily, with just a word here, a gesture there.

Michelangelo took a half-step closer so he could speak in confidence. “Despite the great honors I am afforded, it can feel more like being the most expensive horse at auction than being an artist,” he said, glancing about furtively.

“Does that not guarantee you’ll be well kept?” asked Crowley.

“Kept, aye, that’s the very problem,” Michelangelo confided with a huff of frustration. “If an artist is not free to decline a papal commission, can he be truly free to agree?”

“Ah. The death of inspiration, papal commissions.”

“But -- with all the uncertainty in the world today,” Aziraphale interjected, “all these wars and campaigns and -- you know -- the _state_ of things, one might imagine that a little stability, er, long-term security, might not be such a bad thing?” He shuffled to the artist's side, as though he intended to box Crowley out. Aziraphale clearly wanted him to stop talking to Michelangelo.

But of course, that meant he _had_ to continue. “Caught between comfort and calling, eh? Such a dilemma. A long-term project, is it?” Crowley smiled and cocked a hip enticingly. He’d heard about the sculptor’s less than Church-approved inclinations -- which was why he’d come to this party dressed to kill, in slashed hose and a low-cut black doublet, with his long hair scented and oiled.

Much to Crowley’s chagrin, however, the artist didn’t seem captivated the way the rest of the guests had been. If anything, he was paying more attention to the angel.

“The Holy Father is...invested in my participation,” Michelangelo told them, choosing his words carefully. “We have not always...seen eye to eye. But despite our many disagreements, His Holiness has decided I’m to be the honored vessel for the task.”

“What task is that, exactly?” Crowley asked, as if he didn't already know.

Michelangelo recounted the story in some detail -- the first abandoned commission for the tomb, his arguments with the pontiff, his flight to Florence, fearing for his safety...and the Pope’s unrelenting obsession with his work. For two years now, Julius II had been badgering him about the Sistine Chapel, but Michelangelo was balking at signing another contract. He had even been resistant to returning to Rome.

“The trouble is...how can one refuse the Pope? Let alone the Warrior Pope?” he concluded woefully. “He claims his will is God's Will. Do I really have a choice?”

“There's _always_ a choice,” Crowley said smoothly. Aziraphale, intensely frustrated at that phrasing, was starting to turn red. “I didn’t actually know you painted, Signor Buonarroti,” Crowley continued. “What a surprise!”

The angel smiled over-broadly and spoke through gritted teeth. “Signor Rossi, whatever might you mean by that?”

“I’m impressed, that’s all. Whole different medium. How tantalizing.” Crowley assumed a pose that he hoped embodied ‘tantalizing’, just to get the point across. All he got for his trouble was an even more pointed glare from his adorably flustered adversary.

“Gentlemen, do you need a moment?” Michelangelo asked them, looking back and forth between them. Crowley noted that his eyes lingered longer on Aziraphale with each glance.

“We could take a turn, perhaps? Get all caught up since our last encounter?” Aziraphale suggested, trying to sound nonchalant but not managing it at all.

“I’m quite happy here, thank you,” Crowley smiled widely. “It's such an honor to meet the celebrated master himself.”

 _“A word, Signor Rossi?”_ hissed Aziraphale, finally out of patience. He took Crowley's elbow and steered him away with a grip that served as a reminder of his angelic strength.

Crowley gave a bemused wave over his shoulder to the guest of honor at this grand party -- who, despite all, looked reluctant to see them go. Michelangelo would be surrounded by opportunists, toadies, nobles, and Vatican spies for much of the night, and well he knew it. The poor sap, Crowley thought.

But he had been looking at Aziraphale with a certain thing in mind, and it didn’t take a particularly clever demon to sense what that was. Crowley ensured that his stockings would remain uncomfortably itchy for the rest of the night.

+++

“What in _Heaven’s name_ are you playing at, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered tersely as he shouldered his way through the crowd. Thankfully, his natural aura of geniality was enough to dispel most suspicion, despite the curious looks the aggravatingly handsome demon garnered as he followed Aziraphale to the edge of the square. 

“Nothing in Heaven, I assure you,” Crowley beamed at him.

Aziraphale made a noise that sounded like ‘hmph’ but meant something closer to ‘I wish I could kick you in the shins right now.’ Resisting the urge, he began to lead them in a wide circle around the edge of the crowd. “Don’t plead ignorance with me, dear boy. Tell me why you’re so interested in the artist.”

“I -- ehhhggghhh --” Crowley began. Catching the look on Aziraphale’s face, though, he downed the rest of his wine and shrugged fluidly. “You know perfectly well why I’m here. The man practically walks around with a ‘Corrupt Me, Please!’ sign on his forehead. And I’m sure you know that, too, considering his work in Rome and all his talk about ‘glory’ and ‘piety’ and ‘abstaining.’” He paused for a moment. Aziraphale glanced sidelong at him, catching the devilish gleam in Crowley’s eyes. “Although...I expect that last bit is up for debate.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Come on, angel, you have to see it! I’ve only spoken to him for a few minutes, but the attraction is obvious.” 

_Oh._ Of course Crowley would be playing the seduction game here. Aziraphale could hardly blame him; if he had hips that swayed like that, he’d have a far easier time getting his hands on decent wine. That didn’t mean he approved of Crowley’s approach tonight, though. Michelangelo was a genuinely pious man, after all -- Aziraphale could sense it. 

Crowley continued. “I imagine a few well placed words here, a coy look there, a touch on the shoulder here -- that could get the job done quickly.” 

_“Get the job done?”_ Aziraphale said incredulously. “That seems a bit crude.”

“Temptations aren’t for the faint of heart, angel. You should know that by now.” 

“Yes, well I’ve never had to...you know. Do what you do.”

“What, you’ve never ssseduced anyone, angel?” Crowley drew out the ‘s’ mockingly. 

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale huffed, worrying the hem of his doublet. While he’d managed many a temptation for Crowley in the past, he was grateful the demon had never asked him to cross that particular line. Still, it made him uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to Crowley when he was getting up to...well... _that_ sort of thing.

They continued in silence, while Aziraphale mulled the situation over. “I must admit, I’m a bit frustrated that Hell is targeting Michelangelo. Certainly, he’s a very talented artist, but is he really Hell material? Why not Julius himself?” 

“The Pope’s a right prick, angel. No more work for Downstairs to do there.” 

Though he would never admit it to Crowley’s face, Aziraphale agreed with the demon's assessment of His Holiness. No more work, indeed. 

Crowley scratched his chin absently. “It’s nothing to do with the artist, anyway, it’s about what he’s destined to do.” 

“The ceiling,” Aziraphale breathed, realization dawning. 

“The ceiling,” Crowley confirmed.

Oh no. That would mean -- _no._ Absolutely not.

“Crowley it _must_ happen!” Aziraphale said loudly, earning him a few upturned noses from the crowd and a perplexed look from his companion. “You have to understand,” he added more quietly, “how important these frescoes could be. Exaltation of the Almighty on a huge scale, painted for posterity by one of the most talented artists of this generation -- well, in this part of the world, at least. And the accessibility! So many humans could see the stories laid out before them, whether able to read or not. Surely, you of all people can appreciate a sound subversion of higher education!”

Aziraphale was so caught up in his fervor that he’d neglected to watch Crowley while he was speaking. Suddenly, he registered Crowley’s face, which had shifted from mildly confused to downright delighted.

“Oh, angel, have I got news for you!” 

Aziraphale eyed Crowley cautiously, searching for malice or trickery in the mischievous curve of his left eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Oh, yes. You see, I’ve come to the same conclusion.”

“You...have?”

“Of course. That ceiling _must_ happen.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, realized he had nothing to say, and snapped it shut. 

“Folks downstairs don’t really _get_ my recent approaches. But consider this: what if, instead of corrupting ONE pope, one weaselly warmongering man, I could do something that would affect millions of people over the millennia?” Crowley spread his hands wide and shot a toothy grin at Aziraphale, which shouldn’t have warmed the angel’s insides as much as it did. “So if this Sistine chapel thingy happens, if all goes to plan -- ohhh, angel, the ripple effect. Here, now -- ostentatious displays of wealth. Just _disgusting_ amounts of money being thrown around. But tomorrow, and the day after, and the _centuries_ after -- people will visit. They’ll flock to see it. Thousands, millions, untold throngs of tourists clogging up the place, seeping irritation and resentment into the very stones we stand upon. Now _that’s_ some commendation-worthy demon-ing, that is.” 

They were quiet for a moment. Aziraphale refilled their goblets with a snap as they strolled. He sipped thoughtfully. 

“Well. At least I don’t have to waste any energy trying to thwart you.”

“You could never, angel.” 

“I could.” 

Those mischievous brows furrowed again. “So how are we gonna make this happen?”

“I should think that between the two of us we can persuade him to do the job.”

“Mm. Think I might take a different angle than you this time, though. Might play off his relationship with good ol’ Pope Foolius to nudge him in the proper direction. Play it subtle.” 

“You fiend!” Aziraphale chastised with a laugh.

They had nearly completed their circuit around the square. Aziraphale spotted the artist not far away, currently bent over double and picking intently at his stockings. The angel cleared his throat as they approached, careful not to startle the object of their joint endeavor. Nevertheless, Michelangelo started at the sound, his face flushed and hair wild, but smiling brightly. 

“Welcome back, gentlemen. You were gone for quite some time, if I may be so bold.” 

“Our time away was all the poorer for your absence, I assure you.” Crowley stepped forward, edging closer to Michelangelo. “Although I believe I can find some time for us to slip away together, if you like.” Aziraphale could hear the wink in Crowley’s voice. Good Lord. What had happened to Crowley’s claims he could seduce someone subtly?

Michelangelo’s smile faltered and his eyes flickered towards Aziraphale, who suppressed a smirk at Crowley’s expense. He had a feeling flirting wasn’t the right call for this situation. The poor dear. Perhaps Aziraphale should intervene, as a mercy to all parties involved? 

Crowley would definitely owe him several scoops of sorbetto for this.   
  


##### +++

“How fortunate I am that you've returned!” said Michelangelo. “The cardinals are circling like sharks, hoping to converse with me, and the longer I can avoid them, the better. I have no talent for Church politics.”

Michelangelo spoke only half the truth; he did undoubtedly feel fortunate that Signor Aziraphale had returned, but was vaguely annoyed that the stranger who had stolen him away was still in tow. The handsome Signor Rossi certainly seemed intriguing behind those dark glasses, but then, he was also _trying_ awfully hard to seem intriguing. Which ruined the whole effect.

And despite their claims to be mere business acquaintances, the pair had been walking _very_ close together indeed, bantering with a familiarity that clearly ran deep. Bantering, he could safely surmise, about him.

How strange to be thought a legend. A little time, a little marble, and the opportunity to glorify God were all Michelangelo had ever wanted. Now every social engagement was a gauntlet to be run.

Signor Rossi surveyed the crowd airily. “Church politics are indeed a treacherous tangle,” he agreed. “Such a shame that art gets caught up in all the corruption.”

“It was ever thus,” sighed Michelangelo. “But even the greatest masters must play the game to have a chance at meaningful work.” And if that meant flattering some of the cruelest and most contemptible men it had ever been his misfortune to meet...well. The thought made him grimace.

Signor Rossi grinned and elbowed him with a bit too much familiarity. “Come now, you don't want to end up the Pope's lap dog, do you?”

“Cr -- Rossi!” choked Signor Aziraphale.

“Not at all!” Michelangelo huffed, appalled. “If he were a mere man, I would _never_ accept his commission! I’ve worked for many a wealthy dullard in my day, but he -- _he_ is a murderous, power-hungry disgrace. If I should choose to paint the chapel, it will be for the glory of God! Not for him. Not even for the Holy Mother Church.”

“Innnnt’resting,” Signor Rossi drawled. “It sounds almost as if you think it's actually worth doing, despite your reservations about ol' Jules.”

Michelangelo shook his head in astonishment at Rossi’s impudence. “Of course it's worth doing! The only question is whether I can stomach doing it myself, on the orders of a man like that.”

“You really think you're up to it? I have it on good authority that Donato Bramante doesn't think you are,” Signor Rossi said. “Rumor has it that's why he's pushed so hard to get you this offer. He wants to see you fail.”

“And how would a traveling silk trader hear a rumor like that?” asked Michelangelo suspiciously.

 _“Ha!”_ Signor Rossi barked. “Your affairs are the subject of idle gossip and speculation from here to Constantinople. I wish I knew less about them. I’m certain _you_ wish I knew less about them. But that part -- the Bramante part -- I thought you might like to know. If you’re seriously considering taking the job, of course.”

Signor Rossi smiled wickedly. He was _entirely_ infuriating...and yet somehow his rude honesty came as a relief. Everyone in Michelangelo's acquaintance had been bowing and scraping and praising him to his face for years now, even those who planned to stab him in the back. It was rather thrilling to be challenged and contradicted. 

Perhaps, despite his rough manners and lewd looks, the silk merchant was indeed trustworthy. At least more so than the wealthy sods fawning their way around the square.

“I _can_ do it,” Michelangelo spat. “I can paint frescoes so magnificent Bramante will sink into the floor for shame. Or I could, if I ever see the end of the dreadful politicking and get to the point of actually picking up a paintbrush.”

“You're quite right, it's a dreadful process,” Signor Aziraphale agreed, all warm comfort and reassurance. “But the contract negotiations and the politics will be over and done in a matter of days, and then you're left with the work itself. And _that_ \-- the art, the characters, the story -- that's what matters! That's what lasts.”

“You understand me perfectly, signore!” Michelangelo couldn't resist laying a hand on Signor Aziraphale's forearm. “These troublesome overtures are fleeting; the completed frescoes should endure for generations, God willing.”

“Blessing rich and poor alike,” Signor Aziraphale added, drawing nearer and clasping his hand.

“Exactly! Teaching Scripture to those who have no training in Latin! The common folk learn so much more through stained glass and sculpture than they do during High Mass.” Michelangelo found himself growing more and more passionate as he described the true purpose of his work. The artless radiance of Signor Aziraphale's smile might have been inspiring him as well. He felt a sense of loss as his handsome new acquaintance squeezed his hand and then pulled away.

“Forgive my insolence, Master Buonarroti,” Signor Rossi said with a slight bow. “I hoped with my pointed questions to ascertain your true feelings about the project -- and it seems they are stronger than you first professed.”

“I suppose they are,” Michelangelo thought aloud, with mild surprise.

“What will you paint?”

“I beg your pardon, Signor Rossi?”

“The subject matter. What's it to be?”

Michelangelo sighed. “Ah, here is another point of contention. The design calls for the twelve apostles. But...”

“But you want...something else?” prompted Rossi.

“Hmm.” Michelangelo looked down into his wine and caught a glimpse of his own face, reflected. “I believe such a holy place provides an opportunity to convey... _more.”_

“How much more?”

“...All of it.”

Aziraphale gasped in frankly disarming delight.

“I want to tell the whole story,” said Michelangelo, “from Creation to the Fall to the Final Judgment...all of it. Botticelli and Rosselli presented the history of Moses and the miracles of Christ, true -- but I want to convey the power of God himself, across the entire narrative of humanity.”

Signor Rossi and Signor Aziraphale exchanged a look.

“I see now why this mission is so important,” Signor Aziraphale told Signor Rossi with a raised eyebrow.

“To you, he means to you,” Rossi added hastily, glancing at Michelangelo. “Your mission. Your vision.”

“If only his Holiness appreciated the scope of my vision,” Michelangelo grumbled.

Signor Aziraphale touched his arm again, and it felt like the warmth of the first morning sunbeams. “What does it matter whether one man understands, even if he happens to be the Pope? He doesn’t command your inspiration, and he cannot corrupt it. The multitudes will appreciate your vision, if you hold true to it.”

“But the contract states that I'm to finish the work as --”

“That contract’s only sheepskin till you’ve signed it,” Signor Rossi smirked. “Rewrite it! You can play the diva card, if you like; throw a fit and storm out if they tell you what to paint. You're important enough to make a few demands.”

“I'm not sure they'll indulge that approach...” Michelangelo looked nervously at the clustered cardinals busily putting away the best of the wine.

Signor Rossi rolled his eyes rudely and snapped his fingers. “They will _now._ You're the artist. Don't let those mindless toadies tell you what to do.”

“So you’ll do it?” asked Signor Aziraphale breathlessly, bouncing on his toes in anticipation. “You’ll accept the commission?”

“You think I should?”

Signor Aziraphale's encouraging smile widened. “What does your heart tell you, signore?”

 _It tells me I could get lost in those blue eyes,_ thought Michelangelo. That thought was followed by a few crude, if inspirational, corollaries.

He cleared his throat. “Will you be in town long, Signor Aziraphale?”

“A few months, I suppose. Rome's lovely this time of year.” Signor Aziraphale batted his eyelashes, and Michelangelo decided he was ready to press his suit.

“I don't suppose you'd sit for a portrait?” he asked. “Or at least a few sketches? I'll be badly in need of models while I work out the design.”

“Who, me?” Signor Aziraphale pulled away bashfully, covering his rosy mouth with a few fingertips. “Surely you must mean Signor Rossi?”

“I _do_ have a great deal of practice playing the muse,” said Signor Rossi, cocking a hip and dropping a shoulder like Donatello’s David.

“No, no, I mean you, signore!” said Michelangelo. “Have you any experience modeling? I can't imagine you've never been asked before.”

Signor Aziraphale looked nervously at Signor Rossi. A number of thoughts seemed to pass unspoken between them. Was Michelangelo imagining the jealousy on Rossi’s face? Or was it merely wounded pride?

“I could have you both,” he rushed to say, hoping he could stave off the 'no' he sensed coalescing. 

“Oh, _could_ you? Have us both?” Signor Rossi purred.

“You could each come to my studio; you could help me with -- with all the great work we've been discussing!” Michelangelo proposed. “I would so appreciate the company of two gentlemen as candid and forthright as you are.” Much to his surprise, he really meant it.

“I don’t...suppose anyone could object...if it were for the glory of God...” Aziraphale nodded hesitantly.

“Of course not!” Michelangelo laughed. “What could be nobler? And the Vatican keeps me in very good wine; it would be a shame not to share it with someone like you, Signor Aziraphale. A true lover of art.”

“Come on, angel,” Rossi chuckled, poking at his friend with a sharp elbow.

“Please say you will,” Michelangelo begged.

Signor Aziraphale bit his lip, his expression torn between reluctance and mischievous delight. “Oh, very well!” he agreed at last, breaking into a swoonworthy smile.

“So it's settled!” Signor Rossi declared victoriously. “When do we begin?”

With a sigh, Michelangelo resigned himself to accepting the modeling services of Signor Rossi along with those of the gorgeous and sunny Signor Aziraphale. Rossi came on a bit too strong, that was all. He was trying too hard. Which was a shame, really; he had a fine profile.

It didn’t matter. To see Signor Aziraphale again, alone in his studio, Michelangelo would happily dine with the devil himself.

**Author's Note:**

> This collaboration is part of the wonderful POV Pairs event hosted by the GO Events server! Authors team up and write a story from different limited points of view.
> 
> For more works in this collection, see https://archiveofourown.org/collections/GO_POVPAIRS
> 
> Thanks to @willowherb for expert beta-ing!
> 
> Find Slate on Tumblr: http://puppy-bums.tumblr.com/  
> Find Charlotte on Tumblr: http://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/


End file.
